Brainy
by mysteriousMice
Summary: John finds his room full of books, and Sherlock finds his bookshelves near empty. Rated M for one-sided naughty bits.
1. Chapter 1

_You might need me more than you think you will_  
><em>Come home in the car you love, brainy, brainy, brainy<em>

_Brainy_ written by The National.

* * *

><p>The book closes with a satisfactory<em> thump<em> in the scarred and worked hands of the soldier. _Finally_, he thinks. _Halfway finished_. The dictionary is placed on the bedside table he's adopted from Mrs. Hudson. 'Auxiliary,' he murmurs as he reaches for the folder that sits next to the book and pulls a pen out of his pocket. 'Puerile.' He scribbles these two words down on a piece of loose-leaf paper. He flips to find a different sheet of paper and he speaks softly as he writes one more word for the night. 'Idiosyncratic.'

This business has been going on for two weeks. Two weeks since he met Sherlock Holmes. Two measly weeks. It feels like he's been living with the 'madman' for a lifetime. And it hits him right then and there how bizarre it is that he's been sneaking dictionaries and thick texts from the bookshelves in the sitting room, quietly traipsing into the detective's bedroom and nicking files and any kind of heavy reading he can get his hands on.

John tells himself that he needs it. That he needs to be smarter, that he needs to catch up with the brilliant man. He smiles to himself at the thought of Sherlock asking him for help, or him knowing something that Sherlock doesn't. Of course, reading Sherlock's books will only let him know what Sherlock knows, and he knows that.

But maybe, just maybe he'll forget something. And then maybe he'll smile when John helps him remember.

And maybe it's something about the fact that these books are Sherlock's that push John to be attracted to the idea of scouring them for vocabulary to memorize, for facts to consider later. Those long, elegant fingers turned these pages, those blazing blue eyes took these words in, that brilliant brain of his deciphered them and made them useful. Oh, his brain was magnificent.

John imagines those eyes raking over him in that same way. Absorbing information, examining an experimenting with his fingers, undressing him like he's a puzzle. he imagines the man's thoughts, his brain taking in the information of each pleasurable place and cataloging it for later in some sort of index, some sort of special file.

He soon realizes that he can't deny the feeling swelling up in his gut and the pressure just below that. John shudders. He doesn't feel ashamed that it's over quickly-it's hard for him hold on for that long when he can almost feel those icy eyes and elegant hands enveloping him. That mind reading every inch of his body.

_Brainy, brainy, brainy._


	2. Chapter 2

_You'll never believe me what I found_  
><em>Think I better follow you around<em>

_Brainy_ written by The National.

* * *

><p>Sherlock starts noticing the disappearances of his books at the very beginning.<p>

It starts with a dictionary, then an encyclopedia and a thesaurus. Innocent enough.

A few days later, they are followed by some biographies and novels. And during the following five days, he watches as his shelf of French texts is reduced to half of its original glory.

His classics had been disappearing in-between these, his epics and the more fantastic tales vanishing into John's bedroom slowly but surely.

And sometimes in the middle of the night, Sherlock hears whispered words; almost silent against the soft hum of a night in London. He presses an ear to John's bedroom door, listening but not making a sound.

'Pulchritudinous,' whispers John. 'Resplendent,' Sherlock mouths silently to himself.

And then he hears those breaths, those very intimate sounds that he really shouldn't be hearing but he listens anyways. It feels odd for Sherlock to hear his own name being murmured in the secrecy of the dark.

'Libidinous,' John quietly moans. 'Carnal,' mouths Sherlock.

Sherlock decides not to ask John about the books.

He lets them disappear.

The only remnants of those private moments that Sherlock sees during the day is John's vocabulary. He seems to make an effort to use big words, words that aren't used much, and this makes Sherlock smile. He knows it's all for him.

_Brainy, brainy, brainy._


	3. Chapter 3

_You know, I keep your fingerprints  
>In a pink folder in the middle of my table<em>

* * *

><p>A slip.<p>

A tiny mistake, just the slightest little movement, and it can mess everything up. Everything for everyone. Just a tiny little slip. It could be a noise, a minuscule noise in the dark of the night, a creaking floorboard or the hint of a whispering voice, a physical movement where you accidentally push something and it hits the ground a little harder than you expect, a back pressing against a door to listen to what's on the other side but then the door creaks open. A slip. A tiny mistake that messes everything up, so that everything falls like dominoes and you can't pick up the pieces until every thing's settled. A mistake that sparks a chain reaction leading to more than one disaster.  
>John looked at Sherlock that morning and saw someone who knew something.<p>

Did I slip up? John wonders silently to himself. Was I too loud? Has he noticed the books disappearing?

"John? Can you return my dictionary? I need it for a moment."

Oh, of course he had noticed the books. The books were obvious. Even John knew that. Still, the accusation makes him freeze up for a moment. He can't get a word out. He's been caught red-handed.

"I don't care that you've been taking them. Go get it, please."

John can only barely mutter out an "Okay" before he stumbles towards the stairs. He feels dizzy.

He knows that it shouldn't have taken very long before his flatmate found out about the disappearing books. He IS a detective, and a great one at that. It's just shocking for him to hear the words coming from his mouth. He's halfway up the stairs before he hears a few more words.

"I promise you can use it again."

John moves quicker, slipping the dictionary off of the pale pink folder that rests between the book and the night-stand. Even Sherlock Holmes can't find out about that folder, thinks John. It's an embarrassing secret, an obsession that shouldn't be known about.

Over breakfast, Sherlock is poking at the egg on his plate that John made for him. He doesn't seem to be eating it. Unsurprising, yet still somewhat disappointing to John.

"Quite duplicitous of you," Sherlock finally mutters.

"...I'm sorry, what?" John chokes on his coffee.

"You, taking all my books. It's fine, just... A bit mendacious, don't you think?" Sherlock is now staring directly at him. Oh, no. No. Not good. Not good at all.

"Oh, that..."

"May I ask why?" John doesn't respond. He turns back to his toast and coffee. Much more comfortable than talking to his persnickety, denunciatory flatmate. (He had learned those words from reading the American dictionary. He quite liked them.)

"What's in the folder, then? Did Mycroft give you some government job? ... No, no, it's not that, is it? I would have known by now."

John feels his veins turning into ice, his guts twisting into a cold, steel knot in his abdomen. No, oh God, please no. If Sherlock knows about the folder, then he knows about everything.

"Mind your own business, Sherlock." John snaps this as he swipes his plate away from the table, throwing away the egg and toast and everything before storming up the stairs once again to take the folder from it's place. He has to get out. He has to get away.


	4. Chapter 4

_Come home in the car you love,_

_Brainy, brainy, brainy._

* * *

><p>The final slam of the front door makes Sherlock wonder if he went too far.<p>

He really doesn't know what's in the folder. Something to do with him? Most likely, judging by the noises he's been hearing at night and the book thieving that's been happening. Oh, god, the noises. Sherlock hasn't been getting much sleep since he noticed them. Not that he hadn't ever gotten much before, but more that when he DOES need it (he tends to crash almost directly after cases are finished), he can't help but listen for the muffled sounds. He has tried to delete his memory of ever noticing in the first place, but it still sticks in his mind like gum to the bottom of a shoe.

It's okay, Sherlock tells himself. It's fine, and he doesn't have a problem with it, and it's just that he's worried. He worries that maybe someday John WILL tell him, and then when Sherlock tells him that he needs to stop, something won't come across right or his flatmate won't understand. Worry is somewhat foreign to Sherlock, but he identifies the emotion quickly.

The solution that he's come up with may do nothing more than hurt the both of them, but it's a solution and the most likely to work out of all the others he's thought of. He has to push John to a point where he stops being interested.

Definitely more hurtful than helpful to both sides.

As much as he tries not to admit it, Sherlock feels a little something harbouring inside as well. Not physically or passionately, just the tiniest pain in his chest that's making him more vulnerable by the second.

Another foreign emotion, then. What's this one called? Love?

Couldn't be. Sherlock doesn't have a heart, as far as he's aware of-he's known this for years and it has been reaffirmed many, many times. Heartless. Cruel. Machine. Cold. Evil. Uncouth. Inhuman. Uncaring, unfeeling, unkind. Insensitive.

No, Sherlock couldn't love his flatmate. Could he?

And even if he did, then John would be disappointed. He would call him selfish. Selfish for not allowing John to indulge in his fantasy. Selfish for saying no. Selfish for being exactly who he is.

It's not Sherlock's fault, but some days he feels like it is.

Today is one of those days.

Sherlock finds himself moving to his feet and walking himself to the window in one last attempt to see where his flatmate is going, but he's already driven off in a cab.


End file.
